


The Adventure Of “Podsnappery” (1890)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [123]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A further front opens in the ongoing conflict with the vile Professor Moriarty, as yet another force enters the fray – but on whose side?





	The Adventure Of “Podsnappery” (1890)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Jonathan Clay'.

_[Begin narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

I shall start this story with a short English lesson, for those curious about the title of this tale. 'Podsnappery' was a Victorian phrase for the act of ignoring inconvenient facts whilst maintaining a virtuous and/or socially elevated air. It can still be found in some dictionaries, just before 'politics'.

It is one of the strange parts of human behaviour that, a a time when some in society (and in certain countries who should know better) were sinking ever lower in their standards, rules were coming into play to prevent barbarism in open conflict. Hence the then recent signing of the Geneva Conventions which, although they could not stop atrocities, made it clear that nations who committed them could expect to find themselves in poor odour for some time thereafter.

It was a similar matter in my ongoing conflict – the term 'war' is not inappropriate - with Professor James Moriarty. He had his family and I had mine, and there was an understanding, which later had to be codified when he looked set to breach it as matters turned against him, that any actions against those I loved would lead to him becoming a widower very soon after. Things had gone better than I had hoped thus far, but at this point in the proceedings a complication arose that I could not only have done very well without, but which did indeed threaten the man I loved. My beloved John.

The London criminal fraternity, like any organization, is a structured affair, and often saw people rise and fall (although the methods of obtaining 'promotion' or ridding oneself of a rival tended to be more direct that in most institutions, or at least I so hoped!). I always kept an eye on potential future sources of trouble, and in recent years I had been worried by the rise of a certain Mr. Jonathan Clay. Most of the criminal fraternity – Professor Moriarty apart - had at least a spark of humanity buried somewhere inside them, but he had none whatsoever.

Mr. Clay claimed to be of noble birth and, given the propensity of some in high society to be unable to keep it in their trousers, this may well have been true. His ancestry was questionable, but his talents and his abuse of them were not, and at this, our final encounter, he was one of the leading proponents of crime in the city. Even my acquaintance Mr. Marcus Crowley feared him, and that was saying something.

I did not doubt that Mr. Clay would be working for Professor Moriarty, at least in the short term. The men shared an absolute lack of humanity that made their joining forces inevitable, although I did not doubt for a second that Mr. Clay would stab the professor in the back at the first opportunity of replacing him, nor that the 'favour' would be returned in kind. Birds of a feather flock together, as they say.

I did not fear Mr. Clay myself, but when Miss Bradbury warned me that he was turning his attentions towards John, that was another matter entirely. Unfortunately and unlike Professor Moriarty, Mr. Clay had no family or even friends who could act as 'leverage' against him, and his 'business partner' would of course disavow all knowledge of his actions should he do anything to hurt the man I loved. He had to be stopped – but how?

+~+~+

Proof that it never rains but it pours came at this time when both John and I were stressed enough already. I generally have a low regard for businessmen, and had kept a watchful eye on both the “Strand” magazine and the publishers Brett & Burke, who brought my friends great works to a nation that, for some reason, was fascinated by my doings (on reading my writing-up of this case, John made a remark about him too being fascinated by my doings, which unfortunately is his standard level of humour, I am sorry to say). And at this stressful time, he had a problem with his publishers.

The original Mr. Brett and Mr. Burke still owned the book-publishers, but at this time two of their employees, a Mr. Benedict and a Mr. John, decided to leave and set up their own business. That in itself would not have been a problem except that during their dealings with John, they had managed to get him to sign a piece of paper which meant that he would only write for the company that they worked for, and they now demanded that he leave Brett & Burke and join Benedict & John instead. He was rightly upset by this, and refused.

Matters were, almost predictably, made worse by my useless lounge-lizard of a brother Bacchus, whom I (perhaps foolishly) asked for help in this matter. Considering that I had helped him in the past many more times than I had asked for assistance in return, I felt I was more than entitled to it, but my recent refusals to leave London and John (not in that order) to be at his beck and call had apparently rankled, and he refused. Luke willingly stepped in, and I had no compunction in allowing him to ruin the new company – men who would deal in such a way should not be in business, in my opinion. But I would not forgive Bacchus for that, and I resolved that, if I came through the trials ahead of me, I would make him pay.

+~+~+

John's job made him an easy target for the villainous Mr. Clay, often taking my friend across the city and to places where he might easily be attacked well before any help could be summoned. When Miss Bradbury spoke to us about the threat, he took it seriously enough, but (I suppose, understandably) did not wish it to stop him from helping others. In the end I had to compromise; he would only take existing patients, and would always carry his gun with him whenever he went out. It was not enough for me, but I had to accept it. It was rather unusual to find our roles reversed like this; whenever I was ill, John was the one whose 'mother-hen' tendencies exploded, even if I silently loved it because it showed how much that he cared for me. I did not deserve such adoration, but I cherished it all the more as a result.

I knew that I should probably not have done it, but I employed one of Miss Bradbury's most expert followers in order to watch if Mr. Clay was indeed monitoring my friend's movements (I knew that he would not employ such a person himself as he preferred to do his own dirty work). They reported back to me that he indeed was, and my heart sank. I argued with John over the need to take more care, and his annoyance at me hurt more than anything had in a long time. I would say that I slept alone for the first time in ages that night, but it would have been untrue. 

I did not sleep at all.

+~+~+

We received some unexpected assistance in matters from a caller at our house the next day but one, which was good as a night back with John had enabled me to catch up on my sleep. 

“Mr. Marcus Crowley”, I said, surprised. “What brings you to London? And how is dear Growley?”

Our guest, looking as dapper as ever, smiled at us.

“The dear boy is very happy”, he said. “As am I; Sir George Baskerville has sold his Hertfordshire estate and moved to the North, for which we are both grateful!”

I smiled at that. He looked around our rooms appreciatively.

“Someone is most definitely celebrating Christmas”, he observed.

That was true. John's peculiar weakness was that he loved to go overboard on Christmas decorations and, whilst I did not mind one way or the other, I had encouraged his drive this year in light of our present difficulties. He blushed prettily at our visitor's comment.

“But I am afraid that it is business that brings me here today”, the criminal said. “In particular, the threat to your good friend the doctor here.”

I did not bother to ask how he knew. It was just one of those things.

“I have been keeping an eye on your Mr. Clay for some time”, Mr. Crowley said. “And he has just done something rather odd, even for someone who claims to be descended from one of our more eccentric members of the nobility. He has purchased a house.”

I did not see anything unusual about that. Mr. Crowley looked at me.

“You might be more interested when I tell you the location of this place”, he said. “It is in Marigold Place, a new estate built just off Goodge Street.”

“Oh!" I said. 

John looked at me, clearly confused.

“What?” he asked (he always looked so cute when he pouted, but I was rarely so foolish as to tell him that). 

“Is not Goodge Street where they have that new bakery that you raved about recently?” I asked innocently. He blushed.

“I did not rave!" he said crossly.

“You went on for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds”, I teased. “What was it again? 'Eight types of pie, and wonderful service, and so handy, and.....”

Mr. Crowley sniggered. John glared at us both, and huffed indignantly.

“This house he has purchased is called “Podsnappery””, our visitor said. “Sometimes I think that the French have one thing right, in not allowing certain naming choices, although I suppose that it fits our Mr. Clay quite well. However, I also found it curious that he purchased the house rather than renting it, and that he introduced himself to his neighbours, as a 'Mr. Smith;.”

“You believe that he is using this property to lure Watson in”, I said.

(People asked me, later in life, why I referred to the man I loved as 'Watson' when other people were around, even though I thought of him as 'John'. The answer was twofold. Quite simply, even though there was what one might call 'silent toleration' for what the two of us had, my calling him by his Christian name in public would have raised more than a few eyebrows, and eventually caught the attentions of someone wishing to do me or him harm). 

“Does he not know that I am not taking new patients?” John asked.

“He must do”, I said. “And that is what makes his actions so curious. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Crowley.”

Our guest stood and bowed, then left.

+~+~+

“We have criminals supporting us against other criminals”, he said, once we were alone.

“There are different levels of criminality”, I said, “as there are in most things in life. For example, most people would accept two gentlemen who room together, but when the likes of Mr. Oscar Wilde openly flaunts his doings in the bedchamber, he will find precious few supporters.”

He sniggered at that.

“Flaunting his doings”, he chuckled.

I shook my head at him. As I said, his schoolboy humour was really appalling at times!

+~+~+

The more I thought about Mr. John Clay and his recent housing purchase, the more worried I became. He must have known that I would find out about it and that John would not go there even if summonsed, so what was he up to? The surgery had a doctor on emergency standby at all times nowadays, so even if he tried to call and claimed that, he would not get John. 

Still, I did not like it. Miss Bradbury carefully and quickly researched all the neighbours for me, but they were all that they appeared to be. Well, except for the one running a private brothel four doors down, but that was London for you. The constituents who had voted him in as their member for parliament might not be best pleased, though.

I decided to visit the area myself, and see if that would help my investigations. Whilst the man that I loved was out helping the people of London, I travelled to Goodge Street which, for those who do not know it, is a road leading west off Tottenham Court Road south of where it heads up towards the London & North Western Railway Company's grand terminus at Euston. The road is not far from our first lodgings together in Montague Street, and I was reminiscing of those far-off days – ye Gods, we had left there full twelve years ago! - as I approached a small turning which led off to a narrow strip of parkland, and a new development on each side of same. To the left was Marigold Place and to the right Petunia Place (Victorian road-namers were not, I considered, overburdened when it came to imagination).

I decided to approach wherever my enemy's house was through the parkland which, I thought, was surprisingly lacking in trees. The developers had planted several, but they were all many years from providing any decent shelter. I walked along, marvelling at the inventiveness of some people when it came to house names, until I found “Podsnappery”. It looked absolutely no different from every house in the row, and I could no tell if my enemy was in or not.

I looked across to Petunia Place, and saw that a cab was just pulling up outside one of the houses there. Using my small but powerful binoculars, I made out that it was “The Willows” that was requiring transport, and was about to wonder why when all hell broke loose.

A second cab entered the small estate at a high if not dangerous speed, and swerved around the southern end of the park before racing some way up Petunia Place, passing the first cab by some distance before stopping. I wondered who was in such a terrible hurry, and was shocked when I recognized the figure who all but tumbled out of the cab, threw some money at the driver and hastened out to knock frantically at the door. It was John's friend and fellow doctor, Peter Greenwood.

I hurried towards him, but only got a short distance before I heard him swear, apologize to the offended house-owner and leap clear down the three steps before bolting along the road. I moved to intercept him.

“What has happened?” I asked anxiously

“John is in danger!” he said. “The surgery received two emergency call-outs one after the other, and he insisted on taking the second. I took the first down in Southwark, and it turned out to be a false alarm. Miss Peabody told me the address of this one, but the stupid driver dumped me outside “Willowbrook”, not “The Willows”!”

“But why would....”

I stopped. I had suddenly got it. If I could see “Podsnappery” in one direction and “The Willows” in the other, then a man with a gun in the first house might shoot at someone coming out of the second. 

What happened next seemed to take place in some sort of slow motion. I bolted back into the park, doubtless leaving a puzzled Peter Greenwood behind me, and even as I did, I heard the sound of the man I loved coming out of a house several doors down. If I could get back to my viewpoint, I would have a clear shot at Mr. Clay – for I did not doubt that he would be the man behind the gun – and I could save John. I heard Peter Greenwood shout a warning to our friend, but I did not have the time to see if he heeded it. I was round the tree, and kneeling to take aim......

And the sound of gunfire echoed around a small square off Goodge Street in central London, as people screamed and my world, which had threatened to fall apart, was - for the moment, at least – saved.

+~+~+

There was nothing that could be done for the shooter, who was, as I had known it would be, Mr. John Clay. A combination of two bullets and the wounds sustained by the shattered glass had done for him before we reached him and, much as I knew that my beloved John's _raison d'être_ was to save lives, there was nothing that even he could do. This man was dying, and the human race was well rid of him. I received one last look of hatred from that horrible face – I was infinitely glad that he had recognized me at the end - before the light went out of his eyes and he was gone forever.

“You saved me”, John said, sounding awestruck. As if I could have done anything else. 

“I will always be there for you”, I said, although I wondered as I said it how true that would be. I had been so close to losing him, and I myself might not come through the dark times that still lay ahead of me.”

The villain had managed to get off only one shot, and my rapid firing had ensured that the only casualty as such was the upstairs window of the lady whose house he had used to entice John into his nearly fateful web. We had to give our statements to a clearly bemused local constable, who doubtless had neither expected nor wanted such 'excitement' on his patch, and were then allowed to leave. I did not care what people might think; I held his hand all the way home to Baker Street.

Unfortunately, we were not out of the woods yet. Not by a long way.

_[End narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

+~+~+

Our next case would have a definitive Gallic flavour, and a third seer would enter my life.


End file.
